


Dressed for Success

by Linorien



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Crossdressing, Gen, Spy Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 02:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15378882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien
Summary: Philippe is one of the best agents in the service, code name 001, and he has just the right tragic background to boot, too. Good looking and with good hair, he makes sure that all the men and women either swoon over him or burn with envy. So who better to send to the glamor, alcohol, and faux reality of the Cannes Film Festival?





	Dressed for Success

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azure7539](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/gifts), [fifty_fifty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifty_fifty/gifts).



> It's done. Finally. *throws hands up and stalks away to bake*

 

Wherever Philippe went, envy followed in his wake. He felt the stares of admiration and basked in them. Growing up he was always second to his older brother, ignored and treated as a whiny child. His brother was the one who would be a great politician and make the family proud. Philippe was expected to support his brother and otherwise stay out of the way. 

Not that he was particularly good at that. He had a knack for finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. His friends were even rowdier than he and were always throwing loud parties. He remembered a particularly grand one with drinking, sex, and skinny dipping in the fountain. Someone had died, sure, but that wasn’t Philippe's problem. He knew how to hold his drink. 

So when Philippe discovered his own aptitude for spycraft and was eventually awarded a double-oh position, he was delighted to be assigned the number 001. Second to no one. His rebellious nature had been tampered by professional skill. 

But no amount of spy training could hide his beauty. There was no better word for it. His dark locks of hair shimmered in the fluorescents as they brushed his shoulders. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut paper and his eyes, when they caught yours, trapped you in their evergreen gaze. Even watching him walk down the marbled halls of MI6 evoked the image of a prince from the past, prowling the halls of his grand palace. 

Other agents gave him the nickname Your Grace. Philippe had no plans to discourage the practice. The one person who didn’t repeat the nickname with a touch of awe, was the quartermaster. And that was who he was on his way to see. 

Philippe strolled into Q branch and stopped before Q’s desk. He felt the stares of the engineers on his back, no doubt admiring the new overcoat he had gotten fitted that morning. The subtle embroidery of a sword between his shoulder blades pleased him to no end. 

“One moment, 001,” Q said without looking up from his computer. 

Philippe waited. He learned early on not to interrupt the quartermaster unless it was a dire emergency. The man was at least twenty years Philippe’s senior, but he had been an agent once and the training never left him. Philippe’s left wrist still twinged when he thought about the time he tried to sneak up on the man while sleeping. 

“Follow me.” Q closed the lid of his laptop and walked into his office, knowing Philippe would follow. 

The office was dark, cold, and really gave the aura of a dungeon. The quartermaster sat at his desk and pulled out a thin manila folder, motioning for Philippe to sit down. 

“I was told you have a mission for me, Fabien?” Philippe asked. 

“I do. One that your particular set of skills would be best for.”

“And which skills would those be? My fencing skills? My swimming ability? My ability to piss off boyfriends?” Philippe joked.

“Your grace,” he replied simply. 

“Yes?” Philippe responded, not realizing that it was a statement, not an address. When Fabien only stared back at him, he realised his error. “Oh. Tell me more.”

“What do you know of Martin Feast?” he asked instead. 

Philippe leaned back in his chair, tipping the front legs off the ground. “An up and coming film director, focusing on documentaries, though he has been known to dabble in short indie films. Graduate of École Supérieure d'Audiovisuel,” the French rolled off his tongue like he was born there, “his work is relatively unknown, although his films have been nominated at a respectable number of film festivals before. His latest film,  _ The Eternal Flame of Brutus _ , highlighting the uprisings in Italy, has been nominated at the Cannes Film Festival this year. His only family is an older sister, though I know even less about her.”

Fabien let out a long sigh. “Yes. Quite. One wonders if I even need to tell you of the mission or if you know it already,” he said in a droll tone. 

“You asked what I know about him.”

Fabien pinched the bridge of his nose. “So I did. There is one thing you have left out. His financial affairs.” 

Philippe cocked his head to the side. This was not something that was public knowledge. Before now he didn’t know there was any reason to dig deeper. 

“His primary source of income is through the stock market. He has had significant infalls of money after four recent terrorist events, all of which were orchestrated by groups he has made documentaries about.”

“And you believe there is something new stirring?”

“Exactly. Our analysts believe something is stirring in Italy with a projected date two days after Cannes. We believe that the festival will be used as an information exchange. We have obtained an invitation to the festival for you. Your mission is to get close to Mr. Feast and find out what he knows.”

***

Philippe stood in front of his closet in his hotel room in France. His mission would be getting underway in a few short hours. There wasn’t much to do on the first day, but being there and being seen was important. He had his new Nikon camera all charged, extra battery pack in the bag with the telephoto lens. He had his schedule memorised. It wouldn’t do to miss a chance to be seen by his target.  

Which brought him back to the dilemma at hand. What to wear. Should he go with the dazzling red, the shimmering lilac, or the mesmerizing blue? Hmm. Best to save the blue for the party. He glanced again at the weather forecast. With the bright sun, today would be a lilac day. 

This was really why he was selected to go on this mission. It was what Q meant when he said ‘your grace’. With Philippe’s long hair, he was the best at crossdressing for undercover missions. Of course it helped that he enjoyed it too. The fashion choices were so much bolder, brighter than what was generally expected of men. He’d much rather wear a navy and red ball gown than yet another boring black tux to a formal event. 

The dichotomy of the clothes also allowed him to vanish into a crowd. He could be two people at once. Leave your enemy chasing after the lady in the pink sundress and they won’t notice the boy with a baseball cap skateboarding past them. 

It was a good choice for this mission. The loose lilac skirt blew in the breeze and danced around his ankles. He was glad he opted for a complex braid to keep his hair from blowing in his eyes as he looked through the camera. Already he had caught the jealous looks from women who opted for a more free hairstyle. 

Martin Feast walked up to the balcony. He stood alone, no main actors in a documentary to be there with him. He wore a light floral print shirt with a simple jacket over it. His hair was short so he didn’t do anything special. Perhaps a little extra gel to keep it lying flat. 

Philippe snapped a few photos, then stood up and coughed a couple times. With a small grimace, he walked away, back toward his bag. He could feel the slight attention on him. But he did not turn around. He pulled out a water bottle and took long gulps of water. Behind him, he heard the instructions that meant it was nearly time to switch subjects. He slowly put the water bottle back in his bag. 

He walked back to the balcony just as Martin Feast was leaving. Philippe made sure to catch his eyes, and then glance away quickly, peaking back again flirtatiously. There. Got it. He would do no more today. Best to leave him curious tonight. 

***

The next day was similar. Philippe allowed himself to be noticed a few more times in a dress of gold and white, his hair down to show off his waves. At the end of the day, he found a table within Martin Feast’s line of sight to sit at and sort through the photos he had taken. 

He frowned appreciatively. Not too shabby. Nothing to display at museums, but perhaps he might frame a couple for his home. 

“Target approaching on your six,” Q said over the earpiece. 

Philippe clicked his tongue once in acknowledgment. Otherwise, he gave no outward indication of acknowledgement. He had seen the man watching when he looked up at the waitress to order a drink. And now he was coming over. The bait had been cast, and it was drawing in the prey. But Philippe would be careful to not reel in the hook too fast. It must be properly swallowed first. 

“Could I buy you a drink?” Martin’s voice was soft, gentle in his asking. Yet it was also confident.

Philippe tucked a lock of hair behind his ear as he looked up. “Oh! Thank you. You have good timing.” His own glass was nearly empty. “Have a seat.”

Martin accepted the offer as he waved a waitress over. “A refill for the good lady and sprite for myself.” He turned his attention to Philippe. “I noticed you yesterday, which agency are you with?”

“Independent currently. I’m temporarily with Photogenic Snaps.” Philippe still thought it was a silly name but that was what the people who made his cover came up with. They had a website and everything.

“Is that some of your work there?” he asked, pointing at the computer screen.

“Yes, it is.” Philippe turned the computer slightly. “I don’t know if it’s all that good though.” Philippe heard Fabien hum his approval in his ear. Fishing for compliments was Philippe’s modus operandi. It hadn’t steered him wrong yet. 

“I think they are great. How much time did you spent on the editing? The lighting looks perfect.”

“I haven’t done any editing yet,” he admitted. 

“Nothing?” Martin appeared flabbergasted. He was absolutely playing it up a bit, but that meant that the charm was working. Not that Philippe had doubted his skills of course. Their drinks arrived as Martin continued. “You have a gift here. You must give me your card and I’ll give your name to contacts of mine. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be a sought after photographer.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have my card on me right now.” Philippe looked down sheepishly. 

“Your name then. And you can find me at the after party to give me your card,” he paused. “You will be at the party, right?”

Philippe smiled and used a pen to write down his name on a drink napkin. “Ali Kissa. And yes I will be at the party.”

***

Philippe saw Martin briefly the following day. No long conversations like they had enjoyed last night. They had a few moments in line to enter the auditorium where the awards ceremony would be held. Philippe wished him luck and Martin confirmed that they would see each other at the after party.

As if he would be anywhere else. Even if it wasn’t a crucial part of the mission, Philippe couldn’t resist a proper shindig. Drinks flowed freely, the music kept everyone in good spirits, and those who weren’t in good spirits were guaranteed to make a spectacle due to the copious amounts of free drinks they had consumed. Truly a drama to put the National Theatre to shame. 

He arrive fashionably late to the party, twenty-three minutes to be exact, and felt the eyes on him as soon as he crossed the threshold. He knew his dress was more conservative than most of the women wore; his natural body shape meant he had to cover more when in disguise. But he rocked the look. 

The full skirts brushed the floor and hid his legs from sight. The bodice swooped upwards and exploded into a veritable bouquet of flowers to distract from his flat chest. The blue dress made the red carnations stand out even more, drawing the eyes upward to the matching red petals in his hair. He had curled his hair and pulled part of it up into a braided bun, wide red petals framing it like a flower. The green ribbon cascading down his back completed the illusion. 

Chin held high, Philippe made a beeline for the bar. He ordered a cosmopolitan and put some cocktail shrimp and mini sausages on a small plate. Social disguise in place, he found an empty table near the dance floor and waited. 

Two minutes later and he already had a small group of men hanging on his every word. He felt like Snow White with the seven dwarfs. Happy to his left was young and riding the high of winning their very first award for filmmaking. Bashful was obviously fawning over Philippe’s beauty but too shy to do anything about it. He had a delightful blush on his cheeks but Philippe figured he would wander off shortly. Grumpy across from him, well he hadn’t won anything and really should probably just go back to his hotel room instead of trying to pull. 

Then you had Tipsy and Dopey, both flirting outrageously but with good humour. Philippe was enjoying flirting back and out-punning them. Prideful had brought his award to the after party and was trying to impress Philippe with his heroic deeds as first AD. Finally Hungry was quickly making his way through a pile of food while still managing to contribute to the conversation through a full mouth. Philippe wished he wouldn’t try so hard. 

At last, his prince! Philippe gave an exaggerated wave across the room toward Martin and excused himself from the table. Instantly he felt more relaxed. The overt attention was stifling and the company of a terrorist was oddly appealing. At least with Martin, Philippe was in control. 

“You seem to have created your own fanclub,” Martin teased as he kissed Philippe’s hand. 

“They pale in comparison to you, Mr Documentary of the Year.” Philippe smiled at Martin, his teeth practically sparking. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, I feel incredibly honoured.” He extended a hand. “I would feel more honoured if you would dance with me.”

“I think you’ve got him, 001,” Fabien said in Philippe’s ear. “His past indicates he only dances with people who end up spending the night with him.”

“I would love to dance,” Philippe replied. 

Placing his hand in Martin’s, Philippe waited with him until the song ended and the next song started. It was a quick tempo jazz piece and Martin swung them out onto the dance floor. The brass band called out the melody and their feet swiftly fell in line with the music. 

Martin proved to be an adequate dancer and allowed Philippe to gently lead the steps and the complexity of the moves. Although he was a little taller than Martin, Philippe still ducked to twirl under Martin’s arms. 

The tempo was quick enough that conversation didn’t happen until the next song, a more contemporary cover. Philippe let Martin steer him around the floor while he steered the conversation. 

“Tell me, what was it like making the movie? Was it frightening being around all the rebels? Was it dangerous?”

“Oh no, it was not frightening at all. Well,” he quirked his eyebrows, “maybe there was some danger. But nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“I would’ve been so scared. I’ve only seen parts of the film, but the fights that they have, over the smallest thing, I don’t think I would say anything at all for fear of offending someone. Everyone seems so mean.”

“They really aren’t once you get to know them. They are as dangerous as you or I.”

Philippe kept his thoughts to himself on how dangerous he could be. “But they are political revolutionaries, surely they all know how to fight?”

“Ideas are the most dangerous weapons they know. They fight with words. By spreading truth.” The music paused, also seeming to hang on his words. “It is an honour to help them spread their message.”

The strings leapt into the chorus and Philippe asked Martin to explain more about the message in the film. 

“It is primarily a message of hope for the future. A realization of a dream. The leaders not just of Italy, but of the world, are not perfect. They haven’t been for a long time. Governments were formed on the principle that the masses could not govern themselves. This principle doesn’t stand in the age of public education.”

Philippe nodded and asked questions in all the right places to keep Martin talking. As he was explaining the second tenet of successful rebellion, Philippe gently steered him from the dance floor to a table. 

Martin didn’t even pause. Philippe had to take advantage in a shift from the live band to more electronic music to move things along. “The music is becoming too loud. Could we continue this somewhere more private?”

“Of course, we can head back to my hotel room.”

Perfect.

***

Philippe stepped into the hotel room after Martin, marvelling at the opulence within. Choral coloured walls with abstract art adorned the room. With a sharp clap the lights dimmed and Martin hit a button to turn on some smooth jazz. He then sauntered over and sat down on the bed, the dark grey sheets wrinkling around him. He smoothed the place next to him. 

“Do you still want to learn about using propaganda as a weapon for truth or would you rather I deploy another weapon?” he said with a low voice. 

Dear Lord that was awful. Philippe thought this man was known for having a woman in every country. Maybe that’s how far he had to run to escape the rumors of his bad pickup lines. 

Philippe smiled and hooded his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind a change of topic.” But this night was taking too long anyways. “Let me shed a few layers.”

“Oh yes,” Martin practically moaned, already ripping off his own jacket and shirt. 

Philippe admitted that the man wasn’t in awful shape, but this was a mission. And the man talked too much. Philippe reached up and took the red petals out of his hair. He held the pins out to Martin. “Be a dear and hold these for me? Smell them, they’re coated in a powder I’ve been told enhances the experience.”

Martin took the petals with glee. His eyes watched closely as Philippe untied the laces on the front of his bodice. 

Slowly Philippe swayed his hips as he tugged at the ribbons on his dress. Reaching behind, he undid the clasp above the zipper. 

Martin inhaled the scent of the petals deeply. 

Smiling flirtatiously, Philippe pulled the zipper all the way open, stopping just before his hips.

Martin inhaled again. He swayed slightly as he sat. 

Philippe slowly ran his hand down his neck, across his shoulder, pushing away the fabric of the dress as he did so. 

Martin’s eyes fell shut and his limbs went limp, falling sideways on the bed. 

Philippe reached over and felt his pulse just to be sure. It was slowing down to a resting pulse; it had been quite elevated before. Dress already partly off, Philippe stepped out of the full skirt and began his search of the room wearing only leggings and an untied bodice. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grinned. It was a look perfect for the cover of a scandalous magazine. 

“How long will he stay out?” he asked, turning away from the mirror and emptying out the contents of the dresser drawers.

“Safely you have twenty minutes,” Q said. “Give or take five minutes depending on the individuality of the body and how deeply he inhaled.”

Nothing in the first drawer. He repacked it again with no hint of disturbance. “It was a pretty deep inhale.” Onto the next drawer.

“Then based on what we know of Martin, you perhaps have another five minutes. Don’t spend all of that time looking in the mirror.”

“I only looked once!” he exclaimed. “Can’t you hack into some cameras or something and see where he hid it?”

“Sadly there are no cameras in the rooms above the fifteenth floor.”

“Ah, the ones they don’t expect to be stealing the free shampoos.” Dresser was a bust, moving onto the bathroom. “How small can a usb be anyway?”

“They can be quite small. I’d suggest looking for objects that are meant to have electronic components. He would’ve had to get this through airport security.”

“Fabien, you’re a genius.” He climbed out of the shower and looked instead at the toothbrush sitting on the counter. It was thick like a normal electric toothbrush, but didn’t immediately seem suspicious. Philippe reached into his bodice and pulled out a small screwdriver. Unscrewing the bottom he found that it was an ordinary brush. With a frown, he pieced it back together. 

He checked the razor and the old mp3 player as well with similar disappointing results. 

He looked carefully around the room, scanning for anything that might hide a usb and not be noticed. Not above the shower head, not taped to the tv, not under the bed. Wait. It could be in the remote. 

He picked up the remote and then looked at the tv. Different companies. He flipped it over and opened the battery case. “Bingo.” He lifted the small usb and held it up like a treasure. 

“Excellent. Then get out of there before he recovers.”

Philippe rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t just leave someone to wake up on their own.” He tucked the usb into his corset and tied it back up again. Then he busied himself messing up the bed covers and sticking the pins back in his hair in a haphazard manner. He could practically feel Fabien’s eye roll as he threw himself down on the bed and waited for Martin to wake up. 

He woke up slowly, groggy. He sat up, rubbing his head. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” 

Martin’s head snapped around to face Philippe, though he then grimaced, regretting the quick motion. 

“I don’t know if that means the sex was forgettable or mind-blowingly amazing.”

Martin evidently recovered his charm faster than his brain cells. “I’d like to think it was the latter. I’ve been told I’m one of the best.”

“It was certainly one of the best nights I’ve had in, well, in far too long.” Philippe sat up and grinned at Martin.

“We’d better go again so I can remember it this time,” he suggested. 

Wow the guy didn’t give up. “I wish I could. But I’ve got an early flight out in the morning.” Philippe pouted for good measure, pushing out the lower lip to full effect. “I really shouldn’t have even stayed this long.” He clumsily gets to his feet and walks awkwardly over to where he had dropped his skirt. 

“Will I see you again?” Martin asked, watching rapturously as the fabric of the dress came up and the image of debauchery became more hidden. 

Philippe paused before zipping up the back of the dress. “I don’t have my card on me, but give me your card and I’ll call you if I’m in town.” It would never do to blow a cover. Or to let a potential one night stand go. 

Martin dug in his suitcase and handed over a card which Philippe then slipped into his corset with a wink before continuing to zip up the rest of the way. 

Then with a cheery farewell, Philippe returned to his own hotel room and debriefed quickly with Fabien before turning in. He wasn’t lying when he said he had an early flight back to London in the morning. Hopefully this data would give them all they needed to know. He’d had too many back to back missions and he was missing his own partner. They were overdue for a night out on the town in extravagant dress and this ball gown would look perfect both under the glittering moonlight and on his bedroom floor.

 


End file.
